Like Claude Debussy, music often paints landscapes I have never seen with my own eyes. Whenever I listen to Suite Bergamasque, best known for Clair de Lune, dreamlike night scenes unfold vividly before me. Meanwhile, a musician who, as a child, believed for years that he was Debussy reincarnated did not create sounds that evoked distant, mystical places. Instead, his music carried echoes of spaces that felt closer, more familiar. Perhaps that’s why, when I listen to Ryuichi Sakamoto’s albums, his music becomes more than just sound—it turns into a space I can step into, a dimension I can traverse with my entire being. And perhaps that’s why I was drawn to Namhansanseong (The Fortress).
A few years ago, back when no one could have imagined the pandemic, I heard that Sakamoto was composing music for a Korean film for the first time. Despite his vast and far-reaching musical journey, he had never scored a Korean film before. The moment I learned this, I rushed to the theater without hesitation. That’s how I came to watch Namhansanseong (The Fortress), and its original soundtrack became one of the albums I cherish most. I was especially drawn to “King’s March”, a piece that carries the weight of solemn, reluctant footsteps—the heavy, deliberate steps of a king who, during the Qing invasion of Joseon, had no choice but to abandon Namhansanseong.
Over time, the Sakamoto albums I had collected with quiet affection grew into a modest collection of their own. These days, as I spend long hours alone writing, simply listening to an old album eases my loneliness and anxiety. It’s not the unfamiliarity of new music I seek, but the way these albums faithfully carry memories—memories that have long been woven into me.
Not long after watching Namhansanseong (The Fortress) in theaters, I visited a Ryuichi Sakamoto exhibition. I had wondered how something as inherently auditory as music could be translated into a visual exhibition, but that question seemed to dissolve the moment I stepped inside. Surrounded by three screens playing his music, I found myself experiencing something beyond sound—something cyclical, like life itself. Just as the exhibition’s title, LIFE, L I F E, suggested, its continuous sequence of life’s unfolding moments included a scene from Namhansanseong (The Fortress). And so, another layer of memory settled atop the music.
According to the lunar calendar, the first month of the year is called Jeongwol—a time marked by the first full moon of the new year, just before Gyeongchip, the seasonal shift that heralds the arrival of spring. It was in this liminal space, between winter and spring, that I felt drawn to familiar memories carried by music. And so, I picked up my film camera and set out for Namhansanseong.
The fortress trail followed mountain ridges that seemed gentle but were unexpectedly steep. Unlike the film or the music, the path carried no sorrow or grandeur. Bare trees and exposed rocks stood in quiet indifference, while people moved briskly along the stone walls. Without realizing it, I had set my mind on completing the loop, just like them. I pressed forward, my steps adjusting to the mountain’s ups and downs, but no matter how much effort I put in, my pace remained slow.
That winter, the road that could not be taken overlapped with the road that had to be taken." — Kim Hoon, Unspoken Words from Namhansanseong
History has always felt distant to me. Reading novels and placing my small, personal dilemmas alongside the weight of past lives sometimes feels undeserved. And yet, my own unresolved dilemmas remain, circling in my mind as they always have. I try to hold on to certain memories, hoping they will help me let go of someone who is no longer here, but in the end, I fail to make a firm choice—until, inevitably, I sink into self-reproach. Lost in these thoughts, my steps slowed further on the steep mountain path. Eventually, I stopped, drawn toward a lone tree standing guard within the walls of Namhansanseong.
Like a deep memory, the tree had neither been cut down nor had it withered. Even as the seasons changed around it, as if shifting stage sets, it remained in the same place, steadfast. Strangely, I found comfort in that. It seemed to silently tell me that it was okay to let go of the urge to keep up—to simply accept what was given and take it in fully. For a moment, I lifted my head and studied the way its branches moved, like a quiet record of a life lived. Unlike those in the royal court who carefully calculated their actions for personal gain, there had been people who, like this tree, had no choice in the direction of their lives. Rooted in the ground they were given, they accepted it fully, even in the harshest of conditions.
By the time the sun began to set, I thought of those who once measured time not by clocks or calendars, but by watching the sky. They counted each full moon as it waxed and waned, month after month. Despite their own struggles, they did not judge others by strict standards but carried within them a quiet, unwavering hope—like the full moon itself. Standing beneath the same sky, feeling the same wind and the distant calls of birds, I suddenly felt connected, in some small way, to those whose names were never recorded in history.
And as I made my way back, carrying that faint sense of kinship, I noticed that the world around me looked a little different. Unlike the moments when I had struggled to keep pace with the tempo of a song or the sequence of a film, the landscape now settled into my memory at my own rhythm, unfolding before me in sync with my steps. The scenes of daily life stretched out alongside my walk. When the wind swept gently past my ears, like music, I told myself that it was okay to move forward at my own pace—to let time unfold without hurry. Holding my old film camera, I carefully pressed the shutter, capturing the moment. Later, when I unfolded my exhibition ticket again, I thought back to the title LIFE, L I F E—a name that seemed to hold two lives within it, each moving at its own pace. And so, I remind myself: we each experience life at our own speed, and that is enough.
